We Believe
by Quicksliver
Summary: Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.  Now finished!
1. The Comment

**Title:** We Believe  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst… Oh the angst.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, mentions of Jim Moriarty, Mentions of Sebastian Moran, various OC's  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Mild John/Sherlock, but it's mostly implied/pre-slash/YMMV, until the end at least. Throw on your goggles.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> My first Sherlock fic. Will be posted in three parts. Hoping I did all right. Please R&R!  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.

**Part One—The Comment**

* * *

><p>John disables the comment section on his very last blog post because he doesn't think he can stand to read a single negative thing about Sher-… <em>Him<em>. At first he thinks he needs to write something huge and exhaustive to explain how he feels, that emptiness inside, that hurt he feels every time he steps into the flat and sees all of the things that were _His_. All the things _He_ left behind.

That bloody harpoon is stuck in the floor next to the couch. There's a full package of nicotine patches stuck beneath the violin that will never play another note. Hell, it might never leave the windowsill if John Watson gets his way. He is fairly sure there's a toe in the fridge still that he should throw out and for some reason there are sunflower seeds in a pile on the mantel. Why sunflower seeds? What on earth were they there for?

The skull (which he keeps almost talking to) is watching him while he stares at the screen.

All the little things that he refuses to change because if he can brush the tips of his shaking fingers over them _('you have an __intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your Therapist—'_), if he can look and feel and pretend that he is coming back, bouncing in the room with that wild, manic energy… Then John can breathe. John can make it through the next day as long as he keeps on pretending.

He wants to write something heartfelt. Something that will show everyone just how strong and unwavering his loyalty to his fallen friend is.

In the end he writes one sentence and embeds a video of the news footage, because he can't put into words how he felt about the brilliant man who left body parts in the fridge and shot the walls when he was bored. Sherlock Holmes: Chronic insomniac, self-proclaimed sociopath, classical music lover and most of all, brilliantly sarcastic.

He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough (_'Everything is exactly what it must be, John. Nothing is ever more then it is, and the sooner you realize that the sooner you can clear your mind of the clutter'_), it starts something. A movement.

'_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.'_

One sentence that isn't enough, and it starts a revolution.

And all John Watson can think about is how he is never again going to come to find a severed head in the fridge.

* * *

><p>Lestrade can't sleep. The couch is lumpy and uncomfortable, and the wife isn't letting him stay in the bed until the question of his continuing employment is settled. He doesn't really blame her, but not being able to sleep has left him bored and awake at three in the morning. Which was why he is one of the first people to see the update as he sits clicking the refresh button, sipping his coffee.<p>

John. Poor John, who had retreated after the funeral and refused to see anyone, save Missus Hudson. John. Who had never lost faith in Holmes, not matter what anyone else said. He has posted a new entry. It is one sentence, but Greg Lestrade thinks it is the perfect sentence. It is all it needs to be.

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

He suddenly wants to reply to the entry, to write 'I believe in him too, even if it's too late'. But the comments have been disabled. Probably for the best, truth be told, but he feels a familiar spike of guilt in his chest. Sitting in the dark, brooding over this 'event', which is probably the last straw in his marriage and career, staring at the dated wallpaper… It's too much.

He pulls out his phone and writes it as a text, hits 'send' and then nervously places the small contraption on the coffee table, eyeing it warily.

About a minute later it buzzes and the screen lights up blue, John Watson's name in bold white letters. He picks up the call to hear soft breathing on the other end of the line.

"John." Bringing himself to say it out loud is harder then he thought it would be, but he manages it all the same. "I'm sorry. I am." Not enough, but it's all he can say.

More quiet breathing meets his ear, and he wonders if John didn't accidentally pocket-dial him or something. It's a little longer before the doctor speaks, and when he does Lestrade feels strangely sad. He doesn't _sound_ like John Watson. He sounds old.

"_What're you doing up so late, Greg?_" Lestrade can't bring himself to answer right away. John's voice is terrible. The words are rough and he sounds ill.

"Guess I'm just…Thinking. Can't sleep." He sets his coffee down. John's page is still open on his computer screen. John doesn't need to know that the wife has a suitcase packed and stashed away in the closet where she thinks Greg won't look. The doctor would undoubtedly care (that is what John Watson does, after all), but he has enough to think about right now.

"…_Feel like a cuppa?_" It's tentative, and Greg sees it for what it is. An offer of forgiveness. A chance to try. He doesn't hesitate in his answer.

"Would love one. I'll be 'round in a few minutes."

"_See you then_." John replies and hangs up with an abrupt click. Greg picks up his cold coffee again and downs it in a few quick gulps before shutting down the computer. He erases the browsing history first, though. Any mention of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes sends the missus into a mood, and while he knows she's been sleeping around on him (he knew before Sherlock pointed it out at Christmas, thanks. He's not actually stupid), he still doesn't want to lose her. Or cause her too much stress. He loves her, in spite of everything.

He pulls on his coat and slips on his trainers. He's just going to John's for a cuppa; he doesn't need to look overly fancy. He wouldn't be surprised if John answered the door in his housecoat. Wouldn't blame him, either.

Men like Sherlock Holmes deserved to be mourned. Even if he was a massive dick sometimes.

* * *

><p>Raz sees the post on his brother's Iphone, because he nicked it from him earlier in the day when the twat wasn't paying attention. He knew about Sherlock's swan dive, of course. Most everyone did. What he didn't know was how the short bloke with the weird hair was taking it all. Raz doesn't know what they two of them had had going on—Maybe they were queer. But what he did know was the Holmes never showed up with friends.<p>

So he's curious. He steals his idiot brothers' phone and puts an alert on it, to let him know if John Watson (They bloke who got an ASBO because of him, and that always makes him smile) updates his blog at any point.

Raz's in the middle of tagging an old motel when the phone pips, and he stops long enough to fish the damn thing out of his pocket. A few flicks of his thumb bring up the post, and he reads the one sentence with a wary, critical eye.

It starts something up in his head. An idea. Maybe not a great idea, or even a good one, but it's there and he can't for the life of him get rid of it. He spends the rest of his night trying to erase it and failing.

Finally, his wandering feet take him to Scotland Yard. The Yard is surprisingly empty but it _is_ late at night, and the shadows hide him nicely as he slides past the CCTV. Every electronic eye has a blind spot, and this one just happens to be smack under a window.

It's a risk. He knows that. He gets caught and there'll be no mercy for him, he has already been told that once or twice and really, is this risk worth it?

Raz thinks back on Sherlock Holmes. He can remember the night they met, how fuckin' weird it had been, when the man in the long, dark coat slid up beside him and started asking all sorts of weird questions about paint types that Raz had been reluctant to answer. Who just walks up to a kid on the street and starts ramblin' on about that sorta shit?

He remembers the shot ringing out and Sherlock's hand pushing him out of the way. He'd lost his balance and gone tumbling over a nearby railing into a river. The tagger had never been one for swimming, and his clothes had dragged him beneath the surface. That water had been bloody cold.

He'd thought that this was finally it, his last night roaming London, when a thin, wiry arm had wrapped around his waist and hauled him to the surface. Sherlock Holmes, though he hadn't known the mans' name at the time, pulled him out of the river, slipped his bag of pot from one pocket with a nifty bit of pick pocketing and tosses him to a medic. Saves his life, and saves him from jail time. That's when Raz starts liking Sherlock Holmes.

He starts believing him when, two nights later, the bloke walks up next to him and starts asking more questions like their conversation had never been interrupted. Raz answers more readily (he might be a thug, but he ain't a prat) and the detective seems more then pleased, handing over fifty quid and the bag of weed he'd pulled from Raz's pocket.

So he decides yeah, the risk is worth it. Raz Ryanhall has always considered himself loyal.

He pulls his hood over his face and sinks low into his hoodie. He decides on yellow because it'll be nice and bright on the brick and goes about his work quickly. It's sloppy and amateur. The yellow runs down the mortar gaps and he wishes it was bigger, but staying any longer changes this from risky to stupid and he didn't survive this long as a tagger by being stupid.

Raz admires his work long enough to snap a picture on Jake's phone, then pockets his paint and walks briskly away. He sends the shot in a mass text to some of his fellow artists and puts 'Doc Watson Believes, and so do I' in the subject line. In the body of the message he writes 'Ne1 who don't can GDIAF.'

He decides to do a more elaborate and less public 'work' tomorrow. Something that'll really turn the soddin' police on their heads.

Something that would make Holmes grin.

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper sees it on the news while nursing her first coffee of the day. Sometimes when she gets up it's already made, a little token of appreciation from her usually silent houseguest. He always makes it perfect too. Today, however, he is sitting on her sofa with his legs crossed and his fingers tented, staring at the telly. Molly watches him for a moment, then turns her attention to the screen.<p>

"What's that?" She can see what it is, obviously. It's graffiti on the brick building that houses the Yard. It's yellow, brilliant, and it says 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!'

He isn't looking at her, and his face is completely blank. But there's an odd gleam in his silver eyes. She squints at the caption underneath the video. It reads 'Vandals deface the Yard in defence of fraudulent P.I'. The reporter is rattling off the crimes Sherlock has been accused of with a sombre expression.

She sits down next to him, and they silently watch the rest of the story. When it's finished he turns the telly off. "That was the second news story of the day," He says softly. "Right after the successful rescue of a kidnapped boy in Sussex." He's never soft. Or at least, he never was before. He's been quiet for days now and every time Molly tries to ask him what he's going to do next he shushes her and just says 'I'm _thinking_.'

He stands and wanders to her kitchen, and she can hear the sounds of her kettle being taken out of the cupboard and filled from the tap. "Must be a slow news day." The detective turns the oven on. Molly can't help feel a spark of internal disagreement.

Molly brushes a stray hair from her face and grabs the remote from where he tossed it onto the table. She turns the television back on, flicks it to a different news channel, and the graffiti is there screaming its message to the masses. She can't help but smile. Just like she smiled when he asked her to cut his hair and dye it ginger, which she thinks looks rather good on him, even if he fidgeted the entire time. She nearly scissored his bloody ear off.

"This is going to go somewhere." Molly Hooper is whispering, but he seems to hear her all the same.

"What do you mean by that?" Genuine curiosity isn't something she is used to hearing in his deep voice, and that makes her look up. He's staring at her, and she feels herself blush. Being trapped in that gaze has always made her fluttery.

"I mean… This won't go away," She gestures with her mug to the screen. "People are going to rally behind this."

"Why would they do that? I'm a disgrace, remember?" A wary smirk steals over his face but it isn't amused, it's grim. Molly shakes her head.

"Not everyone believes the press. The people who saw you in action… People are going to speak up." A strange, knowing tingle is tickling the base of her spine. Her mother had always said that their family were sensitive to things to come, that hunches and feelings were important. She would never tell Sherlock that but… She can feel it.

He laughs, low in his throat. It's the first time he's laughed since his fall and she finds herself smiling nervously at him. "Silly Molly. Who would believe in me?"

* * *

><p>Working furiously all day leaves him little time to make the phone calls he needs to, so he only calls the people he knows will come. His arms are stained with ink right up to his elbows but Raz thinks the finished template is more than worth it.<p>

He waits in a back alley for them, and they trickle in one by one. They're all mates of his, and each owes something to Sherlock. Davey and Nye had been part of the homeless network, until Nye had pulled his head out of his ass and gone to school and Davey had gotten a job welding car parts. James, Archie and Kyle all seemed to think the consulting detective had posted their bail at one point or another and Melanie…Ah. Feisty Melanie. She was a total chav but a decent girl, and Holmes had proven her innocent in a nasty bit of carjacking. He had introduced Raz to Mel one day, and they'd dated for about a year.

Raz is surprised to see her there, considering the history they share, but she just looks at him with cold eyes and says, "I ain't here for you, you got that? I'm 'ere for 'im." Raz nods.

The group of them bend over the piece of paper Raz has been working on all day, and there are murmurs of appreciation.

"Who's gonna do the letters?" Davey asks. He's never been one for writing. Melanie rolls her eyes.

"The one of us who's best at 'em. Would be me, wouldn't it?" She crosses her arms.

"Well go on then! We need 'em first." Davey's a prat, but he's right. Mel scoffs and picks a can from the duffel she brought with her and goes to work while the rest of them pick and choose who will do what.

They work in almost-silence for three hours when Melanie suddenly stops. "Wha' you think you're doing, mate?" She whisper-shouts at Nye, who's working on one of the eyes. Nye looks at her with a raised eyebrow.

"What're you on about now?"

"His eyes ain't that colour, mate. They're grey." She crosses her arms. Nye scowls at her.

"Sorry I don' spend hours staring lovin'ly at 'im. You think you know better, then you do it." Mel obligingly picks up a can and takes Nye's place. Nye doesn't seem all that pissed off about it, just takes a different can and goes to help with some of the filler.

Raz stands next to Mel, trying to focus on the work, but she smells just like he remembers and he can't help glancing over at her a few times.

"You wanna take a picture mate?" She says, and he grins.

"Bloody right." Her hair is pulled back from her face and stuffed into a tight bun, but it's mostly hidden by her hood. He can see her nose ring glittering in the little light they've been afforded. She snorts laughter a little shyly.

It has been a good night, so far.

* * *

><p>The shrill ringing of his phone wakes him at four in the morning, when the darkness of night is just starting to turn blue and the streets are still mostly empty. He slaps at the phone with one hand. This is the first sleep he's gotten in a long while and having it interrupted so shrilly is not what he wants. Or what he expects.<p>

The doctor peers through blurry eyes at the unlisted number, debates picking it up for a moment and then finally does, hitting the green button.

"It's four in the morning, this better be good." He growls in his best 'military captain' voice.

"_I think you'll like it, mate." _The accent is far more rough then anyone he knows, which makes him frown.

"Is that so?"

"_Oh yea'. Go left from your fron' door two blocks, then look 'cross the street. I'd 'ave waited longer, but I wanted you to see it first."_ 'I' is pronounced 'Ah', and the number of dropped letters amazes John to no end.

"This is silly."

"_You should bring a camera, too."_ The voice on the other end says. _"And Doc?"_

"Yes?"

"_Thanks for taking the ASBO fo' me. Couldn't really get another hit."_

John almost says something, but just smiles instead. The phone hangs up.

* * *

><p>Limping down the two blocks takes less effort then walking has for the last few weeks. It's almost like he doesn't notice his leg as much. The air is cold and invigorating, the pre-dawn light is perfect. John <em>feels<em> for the first time in a long time. A touch of excitement for whatever he was going to see, a bit of curiosity. This excites him, so he hobbles faster.

He reaches the end of the second block and turns to look across the street, and a broad smile stretches John Watson's face. They come few and far in between these days, the big grins, but this time it's in full force.

The building across the street has a full-length mural across its' length. 'WE BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES' is in sharp, white letters that overlap one another and are outlined in simple black. They're very street, very…. Alive. Behind them is Sherlock's silhouette; complete with that damn deerstalker he hated so much. It isn't black though, it's orange. Close to the ground, and only slightly smaller then the letters proclaiming support of Sherlock, are more words. 'WE BELIEVE IN JOHN WATSON.'

The most impressive part, though, is the profiles. One on either end of the mural, like bookends. The far right is Johns' own face, his short hair and all, skin pale, smiling much as he was looking at it. The most miraculous part was the eye though, fantastically done in light blue. John thinks the colour might be nicer then his own eyes.

On the other end, closest to him, is Sherlock. His high cheekbones, black curls, white skin, all of it is perfectly rendered (as perfectly as they can be in spray paint, anyway). Again though, the eye was the selling point. It's silver-blue and seems to be looking into Johns' soul, trapping him.

John smiles a bit wider. Then he starts to giggle. He stands in the grey light of early morning, giggling like a madman for a good ten minutes. When he's done his cheeks are wet and his eyes are tired, but he feels somehow lighter.

There are seven tags, six names he doesn't recognize and one he does. Raz.

Of _course_ Raz.

John makes a mental note to give the kid some money next time he sees him. He takes some pictures because who knows how long _that_ is going to be left up.

He hobbles home with his mind buzzing in a way it hasn't for weeks. And he's still smiling.

* * *

><p>The first group of them show up around eight that morning, when he's in the middle of making a breakfast he won't eat. John goes through the motions for Missus Hudson's sake, she doesn't need to worry any more then she already does. Though the shrewd old woman probably sees more then he's <em>entirely<em> comfortable with.

He uses the end of his silver tongs (the ones he stashed in his room so they would never, ever touch feet used in experiments, thanks) to pull aside the curtain and peer at the front door, where two men and a red-haired woman that might be Kitty Reilly are standing.

_Reporters._ The thought is venomous, and venom has never been something John's been able to properly cope with. _Lovely._

Like it or not, his paper is on the front stoop and he wants to read it. Which means opening the goddamn door. John doesn't bother getting dressed (Pyjamas and a housecoat are all he's throwing on, thank you very much) and he walks down the stairs reluctantly.

He opens the door, and it's almost like the sight of him startles them to inaction. No one moves for a minute, and much to John's distain, Kitty regains herself first.

"Doctor Watson! What's your reaction to the graffiti defacing Baker Street?" She asks sharply, and John plasters a pleasant smile on his face. Pretending.

"No comment." He steps out and shuffles past them to his paper, which he grips tightly in one hand.

"Do you know the parties involved?" One of the men, a short guy with a pointy nose, has a Dictaphone shoved in John's face. The urge to snap meddling reporter fingers rises in him.

"No comment."

The other bloke is back a bit, closer to the front door, but he's kept out of John's way and looks rather polite for a journalist. "I'm sorry about your loss, Doctor Watson." The young man says, and John takes a quick look at him. Young, very young. His eyes are pale green and his hair is slightly longer then one would expect from a journalist. The locks are bright red, and there's a spattering of freckles on the kid's pale face. He probably still naively believes that journalism can be a force for good. John gives him a curt nod of thanks. "Care to give us your side of the story?"

"No comment."

"John, how does it feel to know you lived with the most proficient criminal mind of our age for eighteen months?"

John stops in the doorway. It would be so easy to just walk the rest of the way inside and slam the door, but he can't bring himself to do it. That _bitch_.

He turns, and he knows something has changed in his face because they reporters are all decidedly paler then they were before. He tries to slap that pleasant smile back on his face but it twists on his lips and becomes something different, something distinctly not John.

_Venomous._

"Actually," He sounds chipper but that just makes them go paler. "I do have a comment for you, Kitty. And you two can use it as well if you like." He tries to sound affable, and thinks he pulls it off. Kitty gives the slightest of smiles when he leans close to her proffered Dictaphone.

"You. Repel. Me." He hisses. The smile drops of her face in a flash.

He turns and disappears back into the flat, leaning against the door while trying to catch his breath. _That might have been a mistake._

* * *

><p><strong>John Watson finally makes a comment- And what a comment it is!<br>**Article by Rhys Sheppard

John Watson may be outwardly ordinary, but there is something to be said about a man who can start a media frenzy with a single sentence, _and_ leave a group of investigative journalists speechless.

I went to the now-infamous 221B Baker Street early Saturday morning, to see if I could wring a quote or two out of one Doctor John Watson, best (and possibly only) friend of the late Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, who threw himself off the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital early July amidst a media scandal proclaiming him to be a fraud, swore by the 'science of deduction' and making reasonable assumptions based on the facts.

At first glance, Watson is not what you would picture for the only friend of an eccentric private investigator. Where Holmes was surrounded by rumours and intrigue, John Watson is short and unassuming. Pleasant enough from the very first 'No comment', while Holmes was known for flashy speeches and a bit of arrogance, which he showed during the notorious Jim Moriarty trial.

He answered no questions thrown at him while retrieving the morning paper until one Kitty Reilly—The woman many Holmes supporters singularly blame for the detective's death—Managed to be heard.

"John, how does it feel to know you lived with the most proficient criminal mind of our age for eighteen months?" She sniped.

This was where John Watson shows what may have endeared him to Sherlock Holmes in the first place; his spine. He squared his shoulders and smiled a little at us.

"Actually, I do have a comment for you, Kitty. And you two can use it as well if you like."

All three of us clicked on our dictaphones, but when Doctor Watson spoke he had eyes only for only Reilly. "You. Repel. Me."

I cannot properly describe the chill that came over me, dear readers, when he spat those three simple words at the woman who may have forced his friend off a roof. He turned and slammed the door to 221B without another word.

I more than anyone can attest to the power of words (They do pay my bills and put food on my table, after all), but very few men can use them in the same manner that Sherlock once could. However, one must wonder which is more impressive: rattling off your entire life story like a laundry list, or starting an Internet revolution with a single sentence?

**-Rhys Sheppard**


	2. The Movement

**Title:** We Believe (2/3)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'Supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst…Oh the angst.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, mentions of Jim Moriarty, mentions of Sebastian Moran, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Missus Hudson, various OC's  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Mild John/Sherlock, but it's mostly implied/pre-slash/YMMV, until the very end at least. Throw on your goggles.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> My first Sherlock fic, part two of three. Fic is still dedicated to princess_aleera, because she's awesome.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.

**Part Two—The Movement **

* * *

><p>The knock on the door comes early in the morning. John moans softly and buries his face further into the pillow. He isn't sleeping, he's not even close, but he doesn't want to get up and go to the door.<p>

He thinks about the qualities of the knock in what he thinks might be a deductive manner. Light but sharp, three raps— that probably means more personal. Slight hesitation right before the third, indicates uncertainty about the relationship. The little voice that speaks up every now and again that he has always thought of as his 'Inner Sherlock' seems to approve.

'_Very good**,** John. Now get the door.'_

John sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His pyjamas are red flannel and he feels comfortably warm, so he forgoes the housecoat for this little adventure. The stairs squeak softly under his feet.

When he opens the door, it's not who he expects.

"John. Hi." Greg Lestrade is standing on his doorstep with a very sad smile on his face.

"Greg." John takes him in for a minute. He's wearing older clothes, casual. A pair of jeans that look a little too big for him and an old brown jacket. There's a pale green duffel bag on the ground next to him with the end of a pair of slacks poking out of the zipper. _Packed in a hurry, then. _

"Can I, uh…" Greg looks as if he's considering just leaving, so John steps aside for the Detective-Inspector. Lestrade's expression becomes one of silent thanks. He picks up the bag and slowly walks up the stairs.

John closes the door and locks it before following.

"What happened?" John asks. Greg doesn't say anything for a time. He's sitting on the couch with the bag propped up next to him and John has dragged his chair over to face him. Lestrade's head is lowered; one hand rests on the back of his neck.

"She ah… She decided she didn't want to move out, this time." He rubs at his neck some more, not lifting his gaze. The kettle on the stove starts to whistle and John gets up to turn it off. The only sounds in the apartment are clinking glassware and bubbling tea.

He sets a cup in front of Greg**, **but isn't surprised when the inspector makes no move towards it.

"…Did you get sacked, then?" John doesn't think that's what happened, because Greg would have said that, but he asks anyway.

"No, ah…" More quiet. The inspector finally raises his head and drops his hand down to dangle in between his knees. "Exact opposite, actually. Turns out I've got a friend with a minor position in the British government; he was quite keen to see me reinstated." His smile is genuine, but tinged with gloom.

John sips his tea.

"The wife rather fancies this P.E. Teacher of hers." Greg picks up his cup and swears as some splashes over the lip onto his fingers. He puts it back down and sticks the scalded digit in his mouth.

John sips his tea again. There's nothing to say to that, really.

Eventually Greg manages to pick up his tea and drink some without sloshing it all over the flat, and John counts that as improvement. He considers going to sit next to Greg, but the bag is in the way and while he might not be Sherlock Holmes, he knows what that means.

"Think you can fix it?" John asks. Greg snorts into his cup.

"Not sure I want to this time 'round, if I'm honest. I know how it's going to go." Lestrade bites his bottom lip. "In six months she's going to get tired of him and come running back, claiming she made a mistake."

"How many times has this happened?" John suddenly feels stupid. He and Greg have gone out for drinks and talked more than enough times, but his wife had always been something skirted around; an issue neither man has felt comfortable enough to tackle. John regrets that now, seeing the Detective sitting on his couch looking miserable.

"Twice. Once a long time ago, but…" It is still something that hurts him. John doesn't need to hear Greg admit it to know that. Old wounds are sometimes the worst ones, and if anyone knows that it's John.

"Well…you can stay here, if you like." He says it mildly, but the offer is firm. "Until everything is sorted. I've got the space."

Greg meets his eyes properly for the first time since showing up at 221B. He looks tired. John knows he doesn't look much better. "You're sure?"

"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't." John puts his cup down on the table, nudging aside a stack of papers.

"I can help with the rent, go in for half," Greg starts, but John's already waving it off.

"You think I pay rent?" Greg's surprised look is easily ignored. "I haven't been to work in two months."

"Then how—"

"I've got a friend with a minor position in the British government… he was quite keen to see me stay here." John shrugs. "Paid the rent for the next year. And money keeps showing up in my account for food." _Not that I eat_, he adds silently.

Greg chews on his bottom lip. "You're sure you'd be okay with me living here, after everything?"

John thinks about it. If he's honest, he never really blamed Lestrade. Not seriously. And any blame he had for _anyone_ has faded over the past two months. There's really no point, especially when the death of his friend lies squarely on John's own shoulders.

He shakes his head. "I forgave you a while ago, Greg." John manages a smile, and Greg looks relieved. "Just let me move my things down here, and you can take the upstairs bedroom. I'm sure Missus Hudson will be delighted to have someone else to force her baked goods on."

John doesn't say that the thought of anyone sleeping in Sherlock's room besides Sherlock makes him feel physically ill, nor does he tell Greg that he can't bring himself to move any of the consulting detective's clutter.

The look Greg gives him says he knows these things anyway.

* * *

><p>Living with John Watson is not like Greg expected.<p>

For one, the other man seems to always be awake. When Greg comes down the stairs in the morning John is there in the kitchen, reading the paper, two cups of steaming tea on the table. Usually there's some sort of breakfast made too— one plate sitting near John and his ever-present cane and the other across from the army vet— but there is always tea. When he comes back late from a crime scene, trying to pretend he didn't just see Anderson and Donovan whispering to one another as he walked out of the office John is sitting in his usual chair. Sometimes he has his laptop resting on he knees and is reading one of his many emails (the movement hasn't died down yet, and John has a lot of 'fans'). Other times he's just staring straight ahead, fingers gripping the handle of his cane until they're bone-white, and that always worries Greg.

He never sees John eating, though it's not like he's around twenty-four seven. There are cases to solve and divorce lawyers to meet with (It looks like Katherine is going to get the house, at least, and she's trying to get spousal support). The doctor has gotten so thin it's almost painful to look at; his clothes seem to drape around him like robes. He looks like he's swimming, sometimes.

John goes out for a lot of walks (though it has to hurt him with his limp), and sometimes he comes back smelling like an ashtray, but Greg knows he doesn't smoke so he figures it must be someone he's meeting. He's proven right when he returns from a crime scene early and finds a young kid in a black hoodie slouched at their kitchen table, a kid that seems very familiar. John seems to have found an actual ashtray in the flat, and the kid taps the end of his cigarette into it. There's a pile of grey ash already staining the glass, and three butts linger on the edge, forgotten.

Greg is struck by how fancy the thing is; it looks bloody expensive.

"I got milk." He opens the fridge door and puts it in, then turns to John. "Who's this then?"

"Don't matter pops, was just leaving." The kid stands up and gives John a brief nod, but John gets up with a grunt and walks the kid to the front door, leaning on his cane as he does. Greg tries to pretend he isn't paying attention, acts as if he is looking for something in the cupboards, but in reality he's straining his ears to hear what the doctor is saying.

"…Out of trouble, alright?" John's voice is soft, but somehow commanding.

"You worry too much, mate." The kid's accent is thick, and he seems barely a step above the thugs Lestrade had to deal with when he first started his career.

"Maybe, but I don't want to get a phone call saying I need to come bail you out. You really can't afford…." He loses what John's saying, but the kid seems to agree, he's nodding.

"Thanks, Doc. And thanks for lunch."

"Anytime, Raz. I'm always around."

They don't hug or shake hands or anything, but 'Raz' claps a hand on John's shoulder roughly. John smiles and jerks his head in the direction of the door. "Go on, get out of here. I can see you worrying."

"Ain't my fault you decided to move in with a copper." Raz smirks and lets himself out.

Greg doesn't mention it further, because he's seen the newspapers and he's seen the tags on the bottom of the now-infamous 'We Believe Street Mural' (which was left up for a little over two weeks; more help from the British government). He remembers the one 'signature' that was bright yellow and figures if he doesn't ask he doesn't know, and his obligations to the law will be satisfied.

Little things seem to be changing with John, though. No, the doctor doesn't eat or sleep as far as Greg can tell, but things that have been sitting around the flat slowly start to move and vanish, like shadows in the fading light. One day the pile of sunflower seeds on the mantle (Why exactly _were_ those there?) are gone. Then a stack of papers that have been haphazardly stuck on the desk are straightened and tucked away in a drawer. The harpoon vanishes. The skull moves to the top of the fridge, where it grins down on them, and is surprisingly fun to make comments about.

Greg doesn't know if this is John getting better and moving on, or if it is purely out of consideration that the doctor is no longer alone in the flat. He stills seems surprised sometimes, when Greg wanders into the living room with a yawn. Greg doesn't take it personally.

* * *

><p>It's a blow when Molly Hooper walks into her apartment and finds Sherlock sitting at her kitchen table, nibbling on some baby carrots, because he's been gone for over a month and she hasn't heard from him.<p>

In that month so much has changed, though you wouldn't know it to look at Sherlock. Molly has been on more dates this past month then she can ever remember having before, but she thinks it might be in part to her newfound celebrity as 'that girl who fancied Sherlock Holmes'. She's cut her hair a bit shorter, time for a more grown-up look. Most of all, though, she's begun visiting John Watson on her days off.

Sherlock, though, seems mostly the same. She takes in his gaunt look, how he's wearing a black business suit with a dark grey tie that's been loosened and hangs limply down his chest. The jacket is thrown carelessly over the back of her couch. He's eating by only the light from her stove, which is horribly depressing. Molly flicks on the kitchen light.

"You're home late." He stares at her in that unfathomable way, and she rolls her eyes.

"Thank you for that, mum." It's been a bad day. One of the newer interns screwed up some paperwork that she spent most of her day re-doing, and her date had been more than a little disappointing. He'd been a nice man but very bland, talking about sports and stocks and something else that she had practically ignored. There is bland, and then there is comatose. Even Molly can see this, and though he'd been one of her more attractive dates she hadn't missed the way his eyes glazed over when she'd had an opportunity to get a word in.

She doesn't miss the look of surprise on his face but she refuses to acknowledge it.

"You're upset." Yet another obvious statement, and a little redundant for someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes. "What's the matter?"

"Do you care?" She drops her purse on the table. He raises an eyebrow, which is still tinged with ginger, though she can see the beginnings of dark roots in his hair.

"Yes." Just like him, one simple word and she suddenly feels a rush of guilt. Molly sighs.

"It's been a bad…week." It has. Just all around stressful, and she feels like she should just give up on men all together. Or a social life, for that matter. "Nothing for you to worry about."

He's still looking at her, one eyebrow raised. "Bad date?"

"Atrocious. But…" She shrugs, and he seems to get the hint that she's not interested in talking about it. He picks up another carrot and takes a tiny bite.

"I hope you don't mind, I've been here awhile," he admits, and his grey-blue eyes are flicking around her apartment. It hasn't changed very much, except for a framed picture she's put on the table of John, Lestrade and herself. It was taken last week at a pub; John had called her and invited her to come out with the flatmates. Each one is raising a pint in the direction of the photographer.

Sherlock picks up the photo as if he hasn't seen it before, which she knows isn't true but decides to let him have that defense if he needs it. She turns and walks into her bedroom, furiously rubbing off the makeup she'd slathered on to impress Stanley the investment banker, frustrated that it was all for naught.

When she strides back out wearing a pair of pink pyjamas (They have cats on them, and were a present from her mum) and with her hair back in a ponytail he is still holding the picture, staring at is as if it holds the answers to every problem he has ever encountered.

"They moved in together, you know." She slides onto the stool across from him and tiredly plops her chin in one palm, eyeing him. "Not _together_ together, I don't think. Not that there's anything wrong with—" She stops, takes a breath. "Into Baker Street. About a month ago."

"Who did?" Like he hasn't already figured it out, but she appreciates him continuing the conversation.

"Greg and John. Greg's wife left him for the P.E. teacher you mentioned at the Christmas party, and John offered to let him stay." he looks momentarily surprised. "I think it's good for John. He seems…Better."

"He doesn't _look_ better." Long, pale fingers ghost over the glass. She's not sure how to respond to that but tries anyway.

"He misses you a lot. We try not to mention you around him, 'cause he gets very sad, and sometimes he'll just stare off into space like we're not in the room, but he's doing that a lot less now and I think that's an improvement, don't you?" Sherlock stares. She stares back and feels herself flush. "I mean, not a _big_ improvement, but still…"

The clock ticking fills the silence, which Molly is thankful for. She can't stand the quiet. Even in the morgue, surrounded by the husks of what used to be people, she finds herself whistling or humming while she works.

"Are you coming back, then?" She tries to stay nonchalant, but hope breaks through just enough to make her hold back a flinch. Sherlock pretends not to notice and gently (so gently it makes her wonder if he's pretending the picture _is_ John, somehow) puts the framed photo back in place, pushing one corner with his pinkie until it's sitting exactly where it was.

He shakes his head. "I can't. Not yet… I just wanted to—"

"—It's all right, I understand." Her smile is just a little too bright. "You should just… I mean, John is…" What _is_ John, exactly? Before Greg moved in she would have said dying. Or heartbroken. Now… "He misses you."

More silence, and Molly struggles not to fill it with more meaningless chatter. Sherlock gives the smallest of smiles.

"You wouldn't happen to be able to change my hair again, would you?"

* * *

><p>The Movement has not slowed in the slightest, something that makes Rhys Sheppard undeniably happy.<p>

At first, when the story of Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes broke, he was reluctantly roped into writing it. Rhys had always been a fan of Holmes, but always in an unassuming, non-public way. Sheppard has seen a few of his deductions at crime scenes, watched the consulting detective at work with an admiring eye. No, the gangly whirlwind didn't seem to have any discernible social skills, and yes; Rhys had been on the receiving end of more than a few snide remarks about reporters. That didn't stop him from being a fan.

Rhys knew that with brilliance came arrogance, and honestly held no ill will towards the detective for the insults.

So when Richard Brook had come forwards he was sent it interview one Kitty Reilly about her source and report that Jim Moriarty had been a fake all along, an actor, Rhys had been more than a little pissed. He bit his lip through the entirety of the interview, a nervous habit. If she had at least tried for some modesty he might not have found her so revolting, but her demeanour was one of self-satisfied smugness and value. And unlike Holmes, Rhys saw no reason she should feel that way. She was a reporter who'd gotten a lucky break, no more, no less.

He ground his teeth while writing the article his editor wanted, to the point that his jaw felt stiff and tired when he was done. Even then, Dick 'My name is _Richard_' Shelter (who was a fantastic bastard, and liked being as offensive as possible) had sent it back, claiming it wasn't harsh enough on the detective. Rhys had been forced to throw some subtle digs in. It only pissed him off more. But Dick, whose favourite thing to say was 'I'm the editor and you do what I say' had been very pleased.

When the first bit of graffiti had shown up in the form of yellow spray paint on Scotland Yard, it had been a struggle to hide the glee he felt. He dutifully wrote a scandalized piece that Dick had immediately put through, missing the understated notes of approval Sheppard had slipped in. It was one of the advantages of having an editor that was dumb as a sack of rocks.

When the Baker Street mural had appeared overnight he was one of the first on the scene, thanks to a text from one of his old college mates. He'd laughed a little in his chest and snapped a picture to use as a desktop later, then made his way to 221B Baker Street with a spring in his step. A spring that had faded the second he spotted a familiar red-headed woman already lingering outside the door.

The spring had returned after John Watson's splendidly demeaning quote. Kitty had looked rather distraught, but that just made Rhys happier.

The article had come easier than any he'd written previously. Short, sweet, to the point. When Dick sent it back with a bright yellow post-it note that said '_It sounds like we _like_ Holmes!_' scribbled on it, Rhys had glowered and attached a post-it of his own '_I do._'

That had earned him a trip to the office, where he managed to convince Dick that this would make more of a splash, sell more papers. The editor had grumbled and griped but eventually fit it in, page three, next to an ad for cosmetic surgery and squished underneath a _riveting_piece on how the cabinet reshuffle was going to destroy Britain. Ho Hum.

But the response had been explosive. Overnight his inbox was filled to the brim with anecdotes of the great Sherlock Holmes, notes of thanks, hate-filled letters of all-capitals rage and slander—it was magnificent. Not only had he started discussion, but it was _heated_ discussion, and that was the best. Even the poorly spelled emails that seemed to be a wall of text made him grin from ear to ear.

Rhys grins as he recalls all of this, leaning back in his chair. He has an office now, which is novel. He has a secretary too, which his _hysterical_ in his opinion. Why does he need a secretary, exactly? But he doesn't complain.

What he does do, however, is report favourably on the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement. It starts with the Baker Street mural and explodes from there. Fliers plastered on telephone poles and streetlamps, buttons worn on jacket lapels, more murals on buildings that matter to those who know the story of Sherlock Holmes.

Saint Bart's gets a rather touching rendition of Sherlock's face painted on the loading bay doors. The spot where he jumped seems revered and remains untouched, but someone does paint 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' in giant yellow letters on the roof of the building. The Yard is the subject of clever 'attacks' ('FUCK YOU SCOTLAND YARD, SHERLOCK HOLMES 4EVA' And 'SHERLOCK WAS SMARTER THEN ALL OF YOU PRATS' Are two particular favourites of Rhys's), until he gets a phone call from DI Lestrade asking him to kindly write something in the paper discouraging the Moverment from spraying paint all over the Yard. The DI does two things right. One, he never once says the vandals are _wrong__._ Two, he asks. He does not demand or yell, or threaten. Lestrade is actually very polite about the whole thing. So Rhys does what he asks.

It works pretty well.

So Rhys is in his office, staring at the wall with a content expression, trying to decide what would be the best angle for this week's column when his intercom buzzes. He jumps a little at the sound (he's still not used to it) and clicks the button.

"Yes?" He draws it out, trying to sound smooth, because Lisa and he have a bit of a joking flirtation thing going on and she seems to enjoy his sense of humour.

"Mr Sheppard, I have a Doctor John Watson here to see you." Lisa's voice is all professional and sharp, which makes Rhys's eyes widen and his jaw drop. He's very glad that his blinds are shut on the glass wall of his office, because actually letting his jaw drop while John-Fucking-Watson is standing outside would be really, really embarrassing.

He snaps up the phone and clears his throat. "Sure thing, Lisa. Could I see you in here for a second?"

"Yes sir." And she clicks the phone down. When she opens the door Rhys catches a glimpse of doctor Watson standing near her desk, gazing around the room with a mild expression.

"What is he doing here?" Rhys asks her, and he feels genuine panic. Lisa, with her pretty blue eyes and her mousy brown hair, has one of the most reassuring personalities he's ever encountered. She shrugs.

"He doesn't seem upset, he just asked if you were busy and had anything coming up in the next while. Said he wanted to see you."

Rhys fiddles with his tie nervously, trying to decide if he should tighten it up or leave it loose. "How do I look?"

"How you look doesn't matter, Rhys." But Lisa is fixing his dress shirt collar with a frown.

"It does, Lisa. This guy practically made my career." He takes a deep breath, and Lisa's firm look startles him into holding it.

"No, Rhys. You made your career. You wrote a good article that just happened to feature him. Now, shall I send him in?"

Rhys smiles at her. "How do I look?"

"Ready. Give me a second." She leaves, and Rhys moves behind his desk. He shuts down his untouched game of solitaire a little self-consciously.

The knock at the door is sharp and professional, and Rhys grins a little. "Come on in."

John Watson looks much like he did last time they'd been face-to-face, outside his little flat on Baker Street, if not a little healthier. He's skinny as hell but his eyes seem to have an odd spark to them. Rhys stands and holds out a hand, which John takes and shakes. The clasp is firm, professional. Rhys smiles wider. "Please, Doctor Watson, take a seat. I've just got to finish this up"

"Please, call me John." Watson sits, taps his cane against the carpet a few times while Rhys pretends to write the end to an email.

He turns with what he hopes is a winning smile. "So, John. How can I help you today?" John's wearing nice clothes, but not overly expensive ones. Jeans and a brown sweater, with a black coat over top. Smart, but distinctly non-committal. His eyes are fixed on Rhys with interest.

"I've read your article, you know." So it was the roundabout way, then. Rhys figures he can handle that.

"Did you?" He tries to sound nonchalant, but on the inside he's bouncing with excitement. "What'd you think?"

"Very…Compelling." John taps the floor again with his cane. "One part I liked in particular, though. I wanted to ask you about it."

"Go right ahead." He's pretty sure he already knows which part John's talking about, but lets him say it himself.

"'_However, one must wonder which is more impressive: rattling off your entire life story like a laundry list, or starting an Internet revolution with a single sentence?'_" He says each bit carefully, like he wants to get it perfect. Rhys doesn't say anything. "You think I started an Internet revolution?"

He leans back in his chair with his hands splayed on the table, studying John. No, he still looks perfectly normal, ordinary. A man with problems, definitely but nothing exceptional. And yet, he is just that.

"Actually, you started an Internet revolution with one sentence and a smear campaign with three words." Rhys smiles a little. "Kitty Reilly is twice as hated now that Sherlock supporters know you don't like her. I hear she's on the edge of losing her sanity." Maybe Rhys shouldn't be quite so pleased about that, but she is a bitter, spiteful woman, and he knows if anyone deserves the hate directed at them, it's her.

John's smiling ever so slightly. "So you think I can…Change things, do you?"

Rhys nods. "Without a doubt. Words carry weight, Doctor Wat—John. And your words seem to have a habit of sticking with people."

"What if I said I was interested in giving you an exclusive, on my views of the 'We Believe' movement?" Rhys sees what this is now. Not a guarantee, but throwing out feelers.

"I'd say that if you knew anything about investigative journalists, it's that we salivate at the sound of the word 'Exclusive.' It's a Pavlovian thing." Rhys grins. John grins back. "And I would be more than happy to tell your side of the story, Doctor Watson."

"John," The doctor corrects.

"John," Rhys concedes, and tries to hide his utter joy.

"Well then, Mr. Sheppard…Would you be available to do that now?"

Dick is going to be _so_ pissed.

* * *

><p>It's quiet tonight, and that's a welcome feeling for him after so many nightmares and feelings of despair. Ailsa is fast asleep next to him, looking beautiful in the soft light that fades in from his window, and he presses a soft kiss to her forehead before untangling himself from the sheets. He met her in a little shop on the edge of London and had happily gone through the steps of a serious relationship with the pretty blonde and her cute nose.<p>

Henry Knight can't help but think on how much his life has improved since the whole mess with Franklin. Pretty girl, a dog (a small one, baby steps), giant leaps forwards in his therapy and a distinct lack of suicidal thoughts. Things are going so well for him that it's hard to remember how miserable he'd felt when ringing Sherlock Holmes's bell.

But he does remember Sherlock Holmes. It's hard to forget that the man had saved Henry's life, his sanity, and proven his father right.

He walks quietly from the bedroom to his study, pulling on a sweater to warm himself. It's bloody cold without Ailsa curled up against him but he has an idea in his head that won't go away, and he might as well do it now so he can get back to bed. He flicks on the light and the luxurious room is suddenly blazing in light.

Soft cracks echo though the quiet as he arches his back and feels the vertebrae pop one by one, and he gives a tiny groan of satisfaction.

Henry opens his laptop and turns on the web cam, trying to get himself in a good light. When he's satisfied with how he looks he clicks 'record' and starts talking.

"Hi." Lestrade watches the kid's face intently. John's out with Raz, probably eating something, and Greg has the flat to himself for now. He stares at Henry Knight and takes in how good he looks compared to the last time he'd seen him. The screen shows Henry's face and a large window.

My name is Henry Knight. Some of you might know who I am, more of you probably won't, but that's all right. Who I am doesn't matter."

The kid takes a deep breath, and a tiny smile lights up his face. "When I went to Sherlock Holmes this past March, I was at the end of my rope. I thought—" He looks down for a second, clearing his throat. "I thought I was going insane. Sherlock Holmes saved my life by showing me what had really happened to my father, clearing his name. It's because of him that I'm still alive today."

Lestrade watches him shift in the seat, then frown. "All of these people, telling me he was a fake, a liar…I don't believe them for a second. I saw that man in action and it was one of the most amazing things I've ever witnessed. I owe him everything." Henry is glaring at the screen, as if he could see the people who don't believe. "So I'm taking a stand."

"I'm offering a reward to anyone who can bring me actual, legal proof that Richard Brook was Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. If you can show me the evidence that Jim Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, if you can clear the name of Sherlock Holmes in the eyes of the law? I'm offering up to ten thousand pounds."

Greg let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"But the information comes to me, and it's first come first serve. If you want the money? Show me." The guy smiled. "My name is Henry Knight, and I believe in Sherlock

Holmes."

Greg texts John with a grin he hasn't felt in awhile. _'__Get back to the flat. You need to see this.'_

* * *

><p><strong>JOHN WATSON ON 'THE MOVEMENT'-"BRILLIANT"<br>-Rhys Sheppard Exclusive**

_John Watson seems more at home than most while sitting in my office. He is relaxed and laughing, his legs crossed, dressed causally—A jumper and blue jeans are all he seems to require and this makes it difficult to picture him in full military uniform. When I tell him that, he chuckles—"I've got pictures back home, if you'd like. It'd be a bit of a trip."—A bit of a trip indeed, for he still calls 221B Baker Street home. _

**Do you plan on leaving?  
><strong>"Eventually, I suppose. I'm in no hurry."

Talk turns easily to the 'scandal' of becoming flatmates with one Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade, whose surprise reinstatement caused a sensation in law enforcement circles. "I'm not sure what the fuss is about, honestly." He shrugs the smallest amount. "I'm not sure if it's because I've moved in with _another_ man, or if it's because that man is Greg. The whole thing doesn't seem newsworthy to me, but I suppose that's just my opinion."

**Is there any truth to the notion that you're together?  
><strong>The question just makes him laugh, and it's a rather inviting sound. "No. Greg and I are good friends, and he needed a place to stay at the time. I had the space." He pauses, then leans back a little in his seat. "And the answer to your obvious follow-up question is no. I don't hold a grudge against him for what happened to my friend, or for doubting him. Greg is a good man who had a job to do, and while I wish it hadn't turned out the way it did… I don't hold it against him." He is dead serious throughout, and his tone takes on a deadly edge when he next speaks. "There are one or two people in the Yard who I blame whole-heartedly, but Greg isn't one of them."

**So do you blame the Yard?  
><strong>"There are quite a few people who played a part in it. The fault isn't with just one person. Though if I were forced to pick someone to blame, it would be Jim Moriarty."

Questioning whether or not he means Richard Brook earns me a half-glare. "No. Richard Brook was a creation, someone designed by Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was real."

I mention that that quote will probably end up splashed all over London, and that ears a grin from the doctor. "This 'Movement' is… Well, I really think he would've loved it. Found it downright hilarious, in fact."

**Hilarious?  
><strong>"Watching Scotland Yard dashing about, trying to scrub his name off half of London?" Watson chuckles, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Bloody right. Hilarious."

When I admit to him that what I'm really interested in is his view of The Movement, he looks more than a little surprised. "I still find it odd," he confides, "people caring what I think. That was never my…" He trails off, collects his thoughts. "I'm not encouraging illegal activity by any means, but this Movement, it's absolutely brilliant. People keep sending me buttons, posters… I walk down the street and I see flyers taped to streetlights. It's like all of the people he helped are speaking up to save his reputation. It's marvellous."

Further conversation reveals that John is aware of his detractors, but he seems mostly unfazed by them. "Oh, you mean the people who seem to think I'm defending my friend because admitting he's a fraud means admitting I'm an idiot?" A smirk steals over his face. "Or do you mean the conspiracy theorists who think I was 'in on it' the whole time?" He rolls his eyes as if to say 'Oh, the dramatics'. "I'm not trying to force anyone to believe, in me or in him. I'm just trying to make people _think_."

It isn't hard to see why the doctor is amused at**…(CONTINUED PAGE 3)**


	3. The Case

**Title:** We Believe (3/4)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'Supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst…Oh the angst.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, Henry Knight, mentions of Jim Moriarty, mentions of Sebastian Moran, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Missus Hudson, various OC's  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Mild John/Sherlock, but it's mostly implied/pre-slash/YMMV, until the very end at least. Throw on your goggles.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> My first Sherlock fic, Which is now four parts, because seriously… Part four would've been giant. Still dedicated to princess_aleera, because she's awesome, and Jademac2442, who betaed this section for me (with a few cackles of laughter).  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.

**Part Three- The Case.**

* * *

><p>Ginger hadn't been too bad of a change, really. In fact, he'd been rather fond of it. But blonde is really, truly offensive to his eyes. He doesn't like it. His skin seems pale and washed out, and sometimes when he catches sight of himself in a shop window or the mirror in Molly's apartment, he can't help but jump.<p>

Logically he knows it is a good thing; that he can barely recognise himself. It lowers the chances of being documented and keeps his profile so low it is barely noticeable. Not even a blip on big brother's radar, and if he can avoid Mycroft's extensive web he can slide around London unnoticed. Mostly unnoticed. Sound logic doesn't stop him from hating it, though.

Moriarty's web is being disassembled piece-by-piece, strand-by-strand, and Sherlock Holmes is the one responsible. An assassin here, a bit of bank fraud there, all around Europe and in some of the most delightfully inconspicuous places. Jim Moriarty was very good at what he did, which provides Sherlock Holmes with a rather exquisite challenge.

Sherlock leans back on Molly's sofa and presses another neutral, skin-toned patch to the inside of his right arm. A deep breath floods his lungs and he squeezes his eyes shut. Molly's gone out with Lestrade and John; apparently there are talks of making their first pub night a weekly occurrence. He is alone in her apartment, which is obsessively neat. It's bordering on sterile. All of the furniture is excessively comfortable, however. When company comes over she clearly wants them to stay. Every time he stops in it is clean and tidy, and he makes an attempt to keep it that way, for her sake.

He fixes his eyes on the ceiling and tries his hardest to resist the little voice commanding him to walk through the rooms of the flat and figure out how she's been doing. He does not care for social niceties— they're dull and keep him from easy answers—but he does understand to concept of 'owing' someone. If he owes anyone (other than John, of course), it is Molly Hooper. Fabricating legal documents, lying to his brother, to John… Everyone, really. Molly has been superb at subterfuge, which is not something he would have guessed she had in her. The talent seems natural, and he wonders what else she's been hiding. Perhaps her ability to blend in was helpful; the way no one really notices Molly Hooper on a daily basis gives her an innate aptitude at deception.

But because he 'owes' her, and because he knows she wouldn't like it, he stays on the couch and tries to deduce his next move. Which string he should sever next. The obvious one stands out in his mind as a silvery cord, taunt and glimmering, leading him through different doors and rooms of his mind palace. In places it becomes tangled and seems impossible to follow, in others it beckons him in a way reminiscent of The Woman.

Sebastian Moran.

The assassin that, by all accounts, held a special place in Moriarty's heart and a place of honour at his side. The other pieces of Jim's web hum with fear whenever the name is uttered, vibrating with unspoken energy. If Jim Moriarty was the spider twitching the strings, then Sebastian Moran was the central hub where he sat. Unfailingly cruel, astonishingly efficient, and over all, abidingly loyal to the madman.

Sherlock has yet to see him, but the few descriptions he has been given paint a disturbing picture. The main adjective used is _big_, which does not surprise Sherlock in the slightest. Jim had been the kind of man who would have been delighted to show his dominance over a man that is at least six feet tall and built like a barn; to wield that power like the weapon that it is.

No matter how much he wishes to, Sherlock has resigned himself to leaving Moran for the time being. The web is still too strong, even after all of his work. Unfortunately, when he isn't thinking about Sebastian or his next plan of attack, his mind is consumed with one subject: John.

John. Sherlock hasn't seen the good doctor since his fall because the risk always seems too great. The only allowance he gave himself was a brief glimpse at the grave right after the funeral, when he watched John break down in tears with an odd pang in his chest. He does not check in, does not skulk outside 221B waiting for even the slightest hint of movement from the window.

He cannot be sure there are no longer assassins watching John, and he is even less sure that John would be fooled by the changes to his appearance. Recognition, at this point, is the worst possible thing that could happen.

Because John would insist on following him.

Every time he leaves the relative safety of Molly Hooper's flat, it is with the knowledge that it might be the last time he ever sees the inoffensive paint colour and pristine surfaces, along with the surprisingly steadfast woman whom he has grown to respect, perhaps even admire. He knows—when crouched in the bushes outside a dilapidated house in Dublin or trying his hardest to melt seamlessly into the shadows of an alley in Venice—that each moment might be his last. He has come to accept that. If death is necessary to destroy as much of Moriarty's empire as he can, then he will die with his chin raised and a smile on his lips.

What he cannot allow, as much as it confuses him, is John's death. Steadfast, trustworthy John. The Moran to Sherlock's Moriarty. If Sherlock were to show up in 221B with a smirk and a request for assistance, he knows John would acquiesce without hesitation, because that is John. And this is the main reason that he avoids the doctor.

Sherlock snarls softly and jumps off the couch. This hopeless pining is getting him nowhere, and wasting valuable time. He should be thinking, plotting his next move. The sooner he is finished with this, the sooner he can get back home, back to—

"Never mind that now." He says it out loud to the empty apartment. He finds that talking to himself is much harder than it was before, because he is always expecting a huff of exasperation or a mild comment about something or other. When they don't come, he has to push away one of those pesky feelings that have bubbled to the surface since meeting John Watson, though this one is at least easy to identify. He is lonely.

He snorts, slightly disgusted with himself.

He gazes at the photograph sitting on Molly's kitchen table and finds himself striding towards it, and grasping the cold wooden frame in his fingers. He looks at it again, trying to figure out as much as possible, though it's doubtful that he'll see anything he hasn't seen before and he's aware how mad it is to expect anything different. Still, he finds he cannot help himself.

John is in yet another of his ridiculous sweaters; a grey and pale blue one that appears to be a series of interlocking diamonds. The lighting in the pub leaves much to be desired (and probably gives the place an air of mystery, if one is intoxicated enough), but the flash casts enough light for Sherlock to pick out the smile that does not quite reach the doctor's eyes. Pale blue eyes that have dark smudges beneath them, like dual bruises, and seem sad. Sherlock tries to remove the subject from his observations at all times, but this seems to be one of those few instances where he can't, so he just accepts that he _believes_ John Watson's tired, searching eyes look sad. His cane rests next to his right leg; the limp has returned in full force then. He has an arm slung around Molly's bare shoulders and is squeezing her close to his side, a show of genuine warmth.

John has lost a lot of weight; his face is gaunt and drawn. But his colour isn't too bad. His leg is bumping into Lestrade's when it doesn't need to be, so he's comfortable with the relationship he has with the DI.

Sherlock's deductions are tempered, however, by the knowledge that an instant is easy to fake. Is that _genuine_ warmth, or counterfeit? Are the bumping knees a show of comfortable companionship or a random accident? All the conflicting signs play havoc with Sherlock's natural curiosity (perhaps the loneliness, too) and he makes a rather rash decision.

He's going to see for himself how John is, observe the data first hand and make his own deductions.

* * *

><p>He knows exactly which pub, of course. Molly had mentioned it before leaving for work and he finds himself deleting very few of their conversations these days. They aren't always exciting, but they are <em>something.<em>

It's called 'The Globe Tavern', and it's on Marylebone Road just off of Baker Street. The building has a pub on the first floor and what is probably a dining area on the top two, and front is a deep red topped by a creamy off-white. Plants hang down over the brass letters, but don't block out the name completely.

Sherlock has thrown on a black hoodie and a pair of large sunglasses, and finds himself slouching in the back of the cab feeling like a fool. The jeans he's picked have holes at the knees and tattered hems, and none of them feel comfortable on him, but when he glances at himself in the mirror at Molly's house, he thinks the disguise will stand up to scrutiny. The blonde hair and lighter eyebrows complete the look rather nicely.

He walks into the tavern with a wary eye on the booths. That's where they would sit, the extra privacy is what these three particular people would crave.

Sure enough; he can see the back of Molly's head in a booth nestled in the back corner, and Lestrade is sitting across from her with a half-empty glass in his hand. John is nowhere to be seen, but he's there; a second glass sits next to Lestrade. Sherlock slides into the booth behind Molly, facing the other direction. He can hear them perfectly from here and there's a mirror on the wall in front of him that gives a good view of Lestrade in his seat.

"Well he's looking better, but I'm not sure, to be honest," Lestrade is saying, and Sherlock gestures towards a waitress that happens to be wandering past. He orders quietly and lays his accent on a little thicker.

"Has he been eating, at least?" Molly. Sweet Molly, who is probably finding out so she can report back. How quaint.

"Not that I see. But he's up all hours, could eat when I'm not up." Lestrade is already a little drunk, the tips of his ears are flushed pink. He looks tired, too. Sherlock tries to peer over the sunglasses to see better and takes in a few new wrinkles near the DI's eyes.

"Well he is—" She stops and Sherlock scans the bar area behind him. John is there. His limp is more pronounced then Sherlock has ever seen it, and the weight loss can only be described as dramatic. If Lestrade looked tired, then John looks downright shattered; the dark smudges in the photograph are much deeper then Sherlock had estimated.

The waitress sets his beer in front of him (The brew is one of the cheaper ones, to match his new persona), and he takes a second to thank her before watching John slide into his seat with that soft smile of his. Unassuming, hushed John, who looks appalling.

"…Miss anything interesting?" John takes a mouthful of his drink. His cheeks are inflamed; he's already had a few.

"Naw, just catching up on Molly's week." Lestrade lies.

"There was a man in just the other day, missing a hand!" Molly says. "It was dreadful, no idea how it happened, but Stacy—the night shift girl—was making lots of jokes about it and I couldn't help but laugh." She trails off when neither of the men comment, then sighs in that embarrassed way. "…It was funny. Anyway."

John grins, and it's a sincere one from the looks of it. "I bet it was."

They talk of inconsequential things for an amazingly long time. Sport, the latest political scandal, how work is (Lestrade's underlings don't understand how he wasn't fired, Molly's peers keep hiding her things. She thinks it's all in good fun but John and Lestrade exchange a worried look), Nothing of import. Sherlock takes the time to scan the bar for any familiar faces; the possibility of being followed is a small but pressing one. Not a one sticks out, though he's amused to see the bartender is having an affair with his waitress.

"To excellent divorce lawyers!" Lestrade says behind him, and Sherlock flicks his eyes to the mirror. The DI is much drunker then originally assumed. "She can take the house but she doesn't need money from me." Lestrade laughs. Molly and John grin and clink their glasses to his, then drink. Molly merely sips but John downs a good third of the glass.

This is where Sherlock begins to worry that John has turned to alcohol for comfort, but there are none of the tell-tale signs. His skin is healthy, not jaundiced. He does not seem desperate to drink and while his hand shakes slightly when he lifts the glass it's the same hand that shook before they met, the left one. He elects to keep an eye on it either way.

Lestrade and Molly start talking about the most recent string of murders to plague London (It's an elaborate cover up for the third murder, and working rather well considering Lestrade's obviously baffled expression), and John falls silent. He doesn't seem to be interested in injecting his opinion. Lestrade has his eyes fixed on Molly and is nodding emphatically.

Because Sherlock has his eyes fixed on John he sees the switch. The smile drops of his face gradually; his eyes lower to the table. His shoulders slump. He seems astonishingly wary in those seconds.

Sherlock considers an interesting idea; did he himself look this bad when he thought John had his eyes elsewhere? Is this what Molly saw when Sherlock himself was unaware of her gaze? He decides that he'll reflect on it more later, when not gathering data. He already has much to think about. He also notes that his earlier assumption is correct—John _is_ sad.

He watches the waitress bring them more drinks and set them in front of the three, and John's smile is back in full force in less then a second.

They go back to chatting, but it dies down slowly and they seem to be sitting in companionable silence. Sherlock really only has his own experiences with John to go on when it comes to this, but they all appear comfortable—no bouncing knees or nervous fidgeting.

"I miss him." John. He isn't looking at them, staring down at the table and slowly rotating his glass. Lestrade glances at John with concern and drops a hand on the veteran's shoulder. A sign of consolation, perhaps regret?

"Me too. Bloody git." Lestrade is looking at Molly, who says nothing, but her hand slides across the table and covers John's.

Sherlock decides he _has_ to get out. Not that he's _feeling_ anything in particular, but now is a good a time as any.

He decides that John, while not 'all right' by any means, is being looked after.

* * *

><p>"If you're going to be tromping around London, you should be more careful." Molly growls when she spots Sherlock on her couch, feet dangling over one of the armrests. She takes off her coat and considers throwing it at him, but instead hangs it up in her closet. When she looks back he's staring at her.<p>

"What?"

"In the pub. I _saw_ you Sherlock." She tries her best to glare, but she's really not all that angry. She knows she can't give him the information on John that he needs to make his deductions, she doesn't know where to look. She wonders if Sherlock saw what he needed, if he is convinced that he needs to come back _now_.

He doesn't appear to. He's playing dumb, which is about as unconvincing as it is funny. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're lying to me." She sighs. Sherlock swings himself into a sitting position but won't meet her eye.

Molly kicks off her shoes onto a rubber mat for catching snow, and then straightens them with her toe. Her night has been rather brilliant, all things considered. John and Greg are perfectly lovely men…And Greg is rather foxy, though she would never, ever say that out loud.

"Do you have a sexual attraction to DI Lestrade?" Sherlock stares at her, and she feels heat creep up her neck. "I saw you continually going out of your way to brush against him, and your reaction to his jokes was disproportionate to the humour value they presented. John told me—" He stops. Molly feels a strange mixture of relief and sadness, and finds herself sitting next to the fugitive detective.

She puts a hand on his shoulder that he doesn't shrug off, which she counts as a step forwards. "Sherlock… I know you miss him." He snorts, but she ignores it. "Maybe more then you even realize. Just…Please. Stop this."

He doesn't respond, which is nearly unprecedented, so she decides she's on the right track. If she weren't, he'd be making fun of her by now. "I know you care about him… More then anyone, really. Maybe you even love him. And the longer you stay away the harder it's going to be." She forces the next bit out, but she is not bitter. "Love is hard, Sherlock. Especially when you don't know how to make them see."

He is quiet for a long time, eyes shut, light playing over his face and bringing out every change in his appearance. The skin that is just a touch too pale, the tired circles beneath his eyes, and a light scar on the curve of his jaw that wasn't there before. She can practically hear the whir of Sherlock's thoughts.

"I'm not…" He stops, opens his eyes, but doesn't look at her. "I'm not in love." His nose crinkles a little, in an almost-grimace. "I can't be in love, I'm a sociopath." But there is no conviction in his voice; in fact, he sounds defeated.

"Obviously you were wrong about that. Most sociopaths don't fake their own death to stop a madman from killing their friends." She squeezes his shoulder.

Today is a day for miracles, it seems, because Sherlock Holmes turns towards her and wraps his long arms around her in a clumsy hug.

It lasts about two seconds (she doesn't even have time to hug him back) before he's gone, off the couch and walking towards the spare bedroom that she's set up just for his random, unexpected visits.

The door shuts, leaving her alone in her tiny living room. But Molly Hooper thinks that tonight has indeed been a rather brilliant evening.

* * *

><p>Henry Knight's girlfriend is a pretty little thing, who doesn't at all seem to mind the mess of the flat as she perches on the couch next to her boyfriend, fingers laced with his. She looks at Henry like he is the most amazing thing in the world, which makes John smile a bit.<p>

Henry has been chatting with John about how life is going, his new dog (a small one, Henry confides. Big ones still worry him) and the place he's thinking of buying, along with some of his more lucrative investments. John has nodded and listened intently, but there is something about today's visit that sets him on edge. Maybe it's the way Alisa is holding her massive purse close to one side, or how Henry is sitting on the very edge of the couch, but there's definitely something going on.

Finally Henry stubs out his cigarette and claps Ailsa's hand in his own.

"I've got news." He says. John puts his saucer on the table with a feeling of reverence.

"Oh?"

"The appeal I put out online, it's gotten a huge response." Henry grins at Ailsa, who reaches into her purse and pulls out a thick folder, which she hands over to John with a tiny smile. He takes it and opens the first page, which is a sort of index. Cases are listed on the left with the dates lined up perfectly on the right.

"This girl, she lives in Cardiff," Henry poked a finger at the file. "Sent this over three days after I put out the video. All of it's legal; it's a timeline of the cases Sherlock took matched up with his known whereabouts when they were committed. It's got everything here, John. Cold cases he solved twenty years later, a trip to Scotland during a triple murder… Everything he's done matched up with where he was."

John could see it. And he couldn't help but grin. "And all of this is the evidence?"

"Copies of receipts from the hotel he stayed at, the airline tickets, everything." Henry wrapped an arm around Ailsa's waist and squeezed her close, and John felt a difficult to dismiss, horribly familiar pang in his chest. "Sherlock would have to be in three places at once, for some of them. It'd be impossible."

John glances up at the couple, who are beaming at one another. "You've got copies?"

"We made you one." Henry nods to Ailsa, who pulls a second folder out of her dark purple bag. "We're headed to Scotland Yard right after this."

"Give it to Greg Lestrade." John switches the folders, so that Greg will get all the original files. The tiny blonde slides the folder back in her bag.

"We were going to," Henry nods. "We're going to fix this, John. You'll see."

* * *

><p>Greg has been working non-stop for three days to clear Sherlock's name. The information Henry brings in all matches up perfectly with information they already knew. It's basically a timeline some internet-savvy fan has put together of Sherlock's whereabouts at the times of different, separate murders, combined with electronic footprints that prove Richard Brook isn't a real person. It's bloody fantastic.<p>

But everyone is resistant. He's shown it to three different higher-ups who took copies and never called him back. Anderson won't even glance at the thick file and Donovan just sneers every time he tries to show it to her. He's made phone calls and written emails and done all kinds of work on this, but no one will balk. The case is closed in their eyes.

So Greg does something… Drastic.

* * *

><p>Rhys thumbs through the file left sitting on his desk with a smile that continues to grow with each new page.<p>

Dick had been pissed before. This will make him _livid_.

* * *

><p>The article runs on a Friday, and John sees it because somehow Greg has gotten to the <em>Daily Planet<em> before him. He's got it propped up in front of him as he devours the breakfast John made (sausage and eggs, with a cup of coffee and dry toast). Greg's always liked his cooking.

NEW EVIDENCE CLEARS THE NAME OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. WHERE IS THE YARD?

John reads the headline twice, notices who wrote the actual article and finds himself grinning. "And where is the Yard, Greg?"

Lestrade silently holds up his phone, which is blinking. Six missed calls. "Seems they want to talk to me, now." The DI smirks, and John chuckles a little.

"Odd, how Rhys Sheppard just happened to get the file, of all the reporters in London."

"Isn't it though? I think Henry must've photocopied the files before he handed them over to me. Insurance, you know." Greg pops the last sausage into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Kid's smart." He pulls on his coat, folding the _Planet _shut before handing it to John with a grin. "You should read this. I think you'll like it."

* * *

><p>The huge amount of phone calls Rhys is getting makes him want to laugh, but he only ever does when the blinds are pulled shut and no one can see. He spends all day Friday answering questions. The least pleasant phone call he gets is from the Chief Superintendent, who berates him for an hour about his source and then gets downright rude when Rhys tells him, flat out, that he has no idea who it was and that it was an anonymous tip. He takes great pleasure on hanging up in the middle of a stream of curses.<p>

He has a good idea who the package came from, but it's just an idea. There's no proof. And Rhys Sheppard is not the kind to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when the resulting story made Dick turn a lovely shade of plum.

The most delightful phone call he gets is put through right away by Lisa, which is a notable event in itself.

"Hello, You've reached Rhys Sheppard. Journalist extraordinaire." He grins and makes a little flourish with his hand, even though no one's there to see it. He likes a bit of the dramatic.

"Hello Rhys," The voice on the other line is amused. "It's John Watson."

Rhys nearly sputters, but manages a choked laugh instead. "John! It's nice to hear from you." He feels like an absolute moron, but John can't see the red rising in his cheeks so it's all right. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Is it really that unexpected? You've run a rather interesting piece today." Rhys grins at that.

"I like to think so. You've read it then?"

"Of course. I read all your articles."

Okay, yeah, maybe that makes Rhys idiotically happy and maybe he can't help but bounce a little in his chair. "I'm flattered." He is.

" '_Scotland Yard seems to think the case of the fraudulent detective is better left alone then worked on. Perhaps they really are as stupid as they seem_.' " John Watson is quoting his article. _John Watson is quoting his article_. "You know I live with one of them, right?" But he's laughing.

"Tell him thanks for me, by the way." Rhys smirks.

"Of course."

They chat amicably about nothing for a while, and Rhys enjoys it more then he thought he would. John even offers to go out for a pint with him later. The conversation is just wrapping up when John asks an odd question.

"Do you think people still care?"

Rhys thinks for a second about all of the phone calls, about the Chief Superintendent and his tirade of curse words and threats. Of the rather crass young man who told him he was 'bloody fantastic' and the old woman who told him that she herself had painted a little something on Baker Street. Rhys thinks about all of this and considers his completely full email inbox.

"Oh yes, John. I think people care quite a bit."

* * *

><p>Greg shrugs.<p>

"Don't give me that, Lestrade!" The Chief Superintendent looks rather ruffled. His hair is sticking up in the back in odd-looking spikes, and his face scarlet with rage. Greg has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "The reporter whose started this bloody vigilante campaign just happens to get his hands on the file you've been waving about for three days, and you expect me to believe it's just coincidence?" A curled fist slams down on the superintendent's desk.

"I'm not sure what to tell you, sir." Greg pops open the clasps on his briefcase and removes the folder, all two hundred and forty-seven pages of it. He sets it on his boss's desk. "I've got the whole thing right here. Best I can figure, Henry Knight made copies and sent one to Mr. Sheppard when we did nothing with the information." He shrugs again.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Look, sir, I've got the original file right here." Greg taps it, as if the Chief were blind. "It's the only explanation _I_ can come up with."

"I'm not an idiot, Lestrade. You could've copied the file yourself and sent it to the bloody reporter." But the Superintendent looks deflated. He takes his glasses of and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Greg doesn't say a word, and bites his cheek even harder when the man across the desk reaches forwards and yanks the file folder close, angrily flipping the front open. He scans the index with tired eyes. Greg snaps his suitcase shut.

"And this'll clear the detective's name, will it?"

"It won't just clear his name." Greg is amazed by how much he sounds like John in that second, mild but still dangerous. "It'll prove what an incredible person Sherlock Holmes was."

He leaves without permission, but he finds he's a lot less intimidated by his coworkers these days. Especially when it comes to matters involving the younger sibling of the British government.

He does wait till he's well on his way home to let the grin split his face, though.

* * *

><p>Sherlock doesn't require mementos or scrapbooks or the like. Everything he truly cares about can be stored in one of the rooms of his mind palace; anything of importance is locked into his hard drive.<p>

Which is why, as he sits in a tree outside a rather ramshackle apartment in the early hours of the morning, high-powered camera hanging about his neck, he brings up the articles as if they are sitting in front of him.

Rhys Sheppard. A reporter who, when he thought back on it, had been at more then a couple of his crime scenes. Ginger, freckled, rather tall. Dressed professionally every time he lingered just beyond the police tape. He was single, and rather intelligent, from a lower-middle class family. A small dog perfect for apartment living. Reformed smoker.

The headlines seemed to float before his eyes.

Richard Brook Exposes the 'Holmes Fraud'

**John Watson finally makes a comment- And what a comment it is!**

**The Baker Street Mural; Two weeks of tribute**

**Scotland Yard appeals to members of The Movement!**

**JOHN WATSON ON 'THE MOVEMENT'-"BRILLIANT"**

Sherlock suspected that last title had been courtesy of the editor, the all capitals and quotes around The Movement pointed to a different author, one who wasn't quite 'on board' with what had turned into a revolution.

Rhys Sheppard was, without a doubt, 'on board'. The notes of disapproval in the first article about Kitty Rilley (_'Kitty smirks a little and crosses her legs primly, her nose turned towards the ceiling as she speaks'_), the blatant admiration towards John (_'The question just makes him laugh, and it's a rather inviting sound.' 'This was where John Watson shows what may have endeared him to Sherlock Holmes in the first place; his spine.'_), and the glee at the whole 'We Believe' counter culture ('_The talent shown by the people who believe in him would shock even Sherlock Holmes himself!'_, and that wasn't entirely wrong) pointed to someone who would happily defend Sherlock and his supporters in every day conversation, who would be downright proud to.

This always made Sherlock smile, which was a rarity for him on nights like this. Alone in the cold, waiting silently for something, _anything_ to happen… It was nearly too much for his mind to handle. Boredom, absolute and complete, threatened. And while it allowed him time to think, he very rarely came out of it with anything productive. Mostly he thought of that night, the strange feeling he'd gotten seeing John so depressed, the way his chest had constricted when Molly had brought up a startling possibility, one that he'd never thought to consider before.

Love. He snorted and bit his bottom lip at the very word. A previously ridiculous idea that was slowly but surely becoming more and more probable. The biological signs of attraction were there, as were some of the less clichéd emotional aspects to infatuation, but was that love?

It was definitely closer than anything Sherlock had previously experienced, even with The Woman. She had been interesting, mentally engaging, _different_. Using her sexuality as a weapon instead of an excuse and completely unapologetic about it. Sherlock had saved her life mostly because he didn't like the idea of the world losing one more interesting person, and partly because of the attraction he'd felt.

John, however, was different. For one, Sherlock Holmes actually minded what John Watson thought about him. This was commonplace and trite but true, and that always made the doctor something unique. John also put up with a great deal, to the point that Sherlock had begun doing his more outlandish experiments in the flat to see just how far he could stretch the former army captain's nerves. Quite a bit, as it turned out. Anything short of testing chemical explosions in the living room appeared acceptable, and even then John had returned to Baker Street after a single night spent with the girlfriend he'd had at the time. The boring one. Or was it the freckled one? Sherlock couldn't be bothered to waste space remembering.

Laughter from the apartment shakes Sherlock from his musings, and he raises his camera to snap some pictures of three very refined men walking towards a very decrepit car.

These thoughts are better left for safer locations. Emotions only clouded the mind, and he cannot afford that now.

He must be very, very careful, for Sebastian Moran grew ever closer.

* * *

><p><strong>A case worthy of Sherlock Holmes<br>****-Article by Rhys Sheppard**

A flurry of activity around Scotland Yard has had the media in a bit of a feeding-frenzy, but as always, yours truly has the inside facts.

A rather inventive insurance fraud scam has been thwarted, thanks to an anonymous source and their very expensive camera. Pictures were dropped off at the desk of one Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who regular readers will applaud as one of the primary lawman involved in the ongoing investigation into 'Richard Brook' and the debatable guilt of a certain consulting detective.

When called for information, DI Lestrade was more then helpful.

"The photographs were taken by an anonymous source of our three primary suspects, Jude Park, Terrance Morgan and Kerion Connors, outside a residence in Cardiff." Lestrade explains. "The source managed to capture pictures of incriminating documents. The subject of the documents is classified, but I can say they point to involvement with one 'Jim Moriarty'. The photographs were very clear for a night time shot, so we believe the photographer to be a professional, with professional equipment. Other then that, we have no leads as to the identity of our good Samaritan."

Photographs linking a man many claim to not exist to three known criminals, dropped off to the one DI who has openly supported the late great Sherlock Holmes? Could this be yet another supporter of our favourite consulting detective?

The information provided by one Henry Knight has been pivotal in re-opening the cases on Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, by providing concrete proof that much of what he was accused of by the media would be almost impossible for one man to accomplish.

Knight, an influential investor, offered ten thousand pounds to the person who could bring him solid, legal proof that Sherlock Holmes was innocent and Moriarty was real. Having seen the file provided by an internet-savvy Cardiff native (and shared a fair bit of it with all of you, I'm a rather generous guy), I'm more then confident that… **(Continued page two)**


	4. The Resurrection

**Title:** We Believe (4/4)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-16  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'Supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst…Oh the angst.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, Henry Knight, mentions of Jim Moriarty, mentions of Sebastian Moran, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Missus Hudson, various OC's  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> This is where the John/Sherlock kicks in, friends. There's also now Greg/Molly…Cause why the hell not? :P  
><strong>Notes:<strong> My first Sherlock fic, and it's finally done. The very last piece. Dedicated to my betas princess_aleera and jademac2442, and every single one of you who read, reviewed, loved and enjoyed this fic.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.

**Part Four—The Resurrection**

* * *

><p>It's been two months since Molly has seen any sign of Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Which makes it five months since the first article proclaiming the greatness of John Watson (and his stubborn detective, of course) was published by Rhys Sheppard, and nine months since Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had sat across from one another and discussed the physics of faking ones own death.

It's also been about forty days since Molly started dating _him_… But that's not really important, right now. What's important is that she has no idea where Sherlock is. He's never been gone this long before. Close, but not quite; and she's starting to worry.

She's curled up on her couch, telly on, cup of tea cradled in her hands as she watches some crap romantic comedy that usually had her bawling by the end. She thinks this time she might just get a few sniffles, maybe shed a tear or two; but avoid the messy, red-faced sobs that usually came with these movies. Sobs that had _nothing_ to do with the happy couple on screen.

She glances around her flat and smiles. There are photographs of people on the walls now, one of her and John at The Globe, looking rather done up for a pub (it was New Years). There's another of Greg and John sticking their tongues out at her as she snapped a picture, and it's rather cheeky.

She gives a tiny smirk when a sharp, official rap on her door echoes through the flat. She stands up and pads through her living room.

When she opens the door she is enveloped in warm, strong arms and a deep, passionate kiss, and she can't help the little flutter of joy she feels as she kisses him back.

* * *

><p>She rolls over and pleases a kiss on his shoulder, savouring how warm her bed feels with another person in it. "Wake up." She whispers in his ear. He's got things to do today.<p>

Greg rolls over and drapes an arm around her waist, nuzzling Molly's neck with his nose, and she giggles a little.

"No," He whispers, "Don't wanna."

Molly decides not to complain, and instead begins carding her fingers through his hair.

* * *

><p>John looks up from his laptop when Greg walks in, trying to look casual. He grins a little before glancing back at the screen. "Did you say 'hi' to Molly for me?"<p>

Greg stops dead, coughs a little and makes a quick detour to the kitchen. John chuckles.

"Not sure what you mean, John," Greg has his head in the fridge. "Spent all night at the office, working on Sherlock's case."

"Liar," John laughs. "You spent all night at Molly's. And you've been dating her for at least a month."

Greg straightens, cracks open a can of diet coke and sits in front of John with an eyebrow raised. "What makes you say that?"

"The day you first asked her out, when we were at the Globe." John types a little on his keyboard, smiling. "Both of you were so red I thought someone had splashed you with paint. I might not be Sherlock, but I'm not stupid, Greg." Greg stares at John until John looks up, and he shuts his laptop abruptly. "What I don't understand is why you didn't tell me. I'm more then happy for the both of you."

Greg doesn't say anything for a bit, leaving John to study his face. Being with Molly seems to have smoothed the detective-inspector's frown lines considerably, and the bags under his eyes are less noticeable then before. John can't help but feel a little spark of jealousy, but it's mostly overtaken by the feeling of genuine happiness for his new flatmate.

"I didn't want to rub it in your face, to be honest." Greg mutters. John raises his eyebrows, a silent question that Greg doesn't answer.

"Right…" John glances down at his screen, smiling still. If Greg doesn't want to talk about it John won't force him, but he's pleased that Greg's moved on from his ex wife.

"…Did you love him?" Greg's voice is dead serious, no joking tone or careful phrasing, and it startles John into looking away for a moment.

"What?"

"Sherlock. Did you love him?" Greg's got him pinned in place with his gaze alone, and John feels suddenly exposed.

"I—"

"It's a really simple question, John."

Silence reigns for a long while, before John manages to raise his eyes. "Why do you think that?"

"This goes beyond your best mate killing himself, John. This is like…" Greg gnaws on his bottom lip for a second. "Like you've lost a lover. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you barely leave the flat… You're worrying the people who—" Greg stops, takes a deep breath and sighs. "Who care."

John wants to stand, to turn and walk to Sherlock's room and lock the door, but his legs won't work and his mind is racing. "I…I don't…"

"If you don't want to tell me I get it." Greg shakes his head. "We don't talk about him, and I know it's my fault, but…"

"It wasn't." John whispers, eyes skimming over the flat, looking anywhere but Greg. "It's my fault, Greg, I didn't get to him in time, I—" John stops and closes his eyes. The familiar burning of tears stings his eyelids. "It wasn't your fault." He finally whispers, and he gives a start when Greg's hand is suddenly resting on his knee.

"It's not yours either, John."

* * *

><p>Raz leans against the cold brick with his hands shoved in his pockets and a cig sticking out the side of his mouth, watching a young man in a blue sweater slouch around Baker Street. He's been watching the kid for about an hour with a bit of a smirk.<p>

He's supposed to meet John for a late dinner while the copper is out on a case or something, but when striding through some of the back allies he comes across the kid finishing off a rather impressive tag. It's Holmes on a stormy blue background, smirking just enough for it to be noticed, and underneath is scrawled 'Buk'.

The kid gives a terrified squeak when he sees him and runs off, bolting in the opposite direction. Raz follows with a smirk of his own.

He's been trailing after Buk for about an hour when the sees the short, hooded tagger take a hard left and end up right at Watson's front door, where he takes out a can of yellow paint and shakes it with practiced ease. Raz is about to step in and chase the kid off- John's been good to him and he doesn't want the bloke to have to scrub paint of his front door- when Buk takes a step back and begins to paint the sidewalk.

It's a simple message with a hint of dramatic flair to it.

'_I will always believe.' _And two silver-grey eyes drawn beneath it. No face, no fancy portrait or over-the top shading, just the eyes.

Raz watches the kid run off and slides out from his hiding spot to take a better look.

The eyes seem to stare at him, amused and a little snobby, as he moves to the door and knocks rapidly.

He kind of likes this thing he's started.

* * *

><p>John is awake, sitting at the fire reading Rhys's latest article ('Chief Superintendent under investigation, accused of following substandard evidence', and it's a real page turner) when his phone rings loudly.<p>

The screen is flashing 'Molly Hooper', and he glances at the clock on the mantle. Molly Hooper is calling his at three-twenty-six in the morning.

He drops the paper and pounds the talk button, pressing the phone to his ear with a slightly trembling hand. "Molly. What's wrong?"

"John." She's been crying. She sniffs loudly and he winces. "I need you to come, right away, I know it's late but I don't know who else to call and he won't let me take him to Bart's and I—"

"—Molly. Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened, alright?"

"I've got this…" She hesitates "…friend. He's in trouble. He showed up at my doorstep and he's in a bad way, I need you to come and help him." She sounds out of breath but she doesn't seem to be crying any longer. John gets up and starts rummaging around for his medical bag.

"How bad, Molly?"

"I'm not sure. He won't let me look, but there's a lot of blood." John finds the bag shoved under a desk, dusty and forgotten in the corner. He tries to remember the last time he'd pulled the sodding thing out. It was one of the few cases where Sherlock was hit by something accidentally, a bat to the head, and stitching the wound had been both and adventure and a trial.

John pushes the thoughts away. "I'll be there in twenty. Can you keep him stable that long?"

"I think so." John doesn't wonder why she's whispering, just wraps his hand around the handle of his cane and lurches towards the door. "Thank you, John."

* * *

><p>He gets there and raps smartly on the door, and when Molly opens it a crack and peers at him he can tell she's been crying since he hung up. She lets him in with a watery 'hello'.<p>

"Okay, where is—"

"I have to tell you something." She says in a rush. John blinks. "It's important."

"… Okay, what?"

"…I'm sorry." She bites her lip, and John is suddenly much more interested in what she wants to tell him. "I'm sorry, and I know you're going to hate me but he made me promise not to say anything. And I'm so, so sorry." She turns and scurries off, leaving John to stare after her blankly for a moment.

'_What was all that?'_

He shakes his head and follows after her, into the living room and then to a tiny room where she stands, slightly protective, in the doorway.

"Please don't freak out." Molly whispers. "I don't think he can handle that right now, and… Please. I'll explain everything." She steps aside.

It takes a few seconds for John's brain to register what he's seeing.

There is a man with platinum blonde hair and black roots lying on molly's extra bed, eyes screwed shut, face almost covered in blood and the bits that aren't a worrying grey shade. He's wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks, but the shirt is stained through with blood on the right shoulder and the slacks are torn and caked with mud on the knees. He has absurdly high cheekbones and the ends of his hair are beginning to curl around his ears.

John stares unashamedly and with an edge of hysteria to his thoughts. It looks like… It looks like… But it's not.

"It can't be." Molly is staring at him, but that barely registers. The man on the bed cannot be Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building and Sherlock Holmes is nothing more then bones and dust buried under six feet of dirt.

"It is. John, I'm so sorry. He told me not to call you but—"

"—Tell me it's not." He cuts over her.

Molly blinks carefully at him, her hands wringing together. "What?"

"Tell me it's not him, Molly. Tell me."

"I don't—"

"I can't, Molly. Tell me it's not him, I can't." John Watson cannot treat this man who looks like his dead flatmate, because his mind can't wrap around it. The idea of it, the very notion, consumes all reason. His vision begins to swirl.

Molly seems to understand when he backs up a step. "It's not Sherlock, John." She barks, and it's so insistent that John perks up right away. "Don't be absurd. It's just a friend who's had a spot of trouble with the police, that's all."

John nods. "Right. Best get to work."

* * *

><p>Three cracked ribs, a through-and-through bullet wound that seems to have just missed bone and a host of lacerations and gashes. John thinks Molly's friend is lucky to still be alive.<p>

* * *

><p>Molly watches John work with a wary, critical eye. He stitches and sanitizes and cleans off the blood with a steady hand, but not once does he raise his eyes to Sherlock's face. Not to the whole of his face, anyway. He looks at the patch of skin split open by some sort of blow and the long scrape down Sherlock's cheek, but not once does he focus his eyes on the picture these pieces make.<p>

John is a _very_ good doctor. He murmurs quietly to his nearly unconscious patient as he works, words that she can't quite catch. She's sure the words don't mean anything anyway; it's the tone that he carries. Gentle but firm, soothing in a way she doesn't quite understand.

At one point Sherlock's tired, confused eyes flutter open, and he tries to speak. John gently shushes him, but for the first time in this whole process his hand begins to shake.

"Be quiet, Brett, I've brought a doctor." Molly says, a little sharper then she intended, but it works. Sherlock's mouth clamps shut and his eyes slide over to her before closing.

* * *

><p>John asks Molly to pick up some more disinfectant and a larger size of bandages. They'll be needed later and his medical bag is almost out, but as she turns to go he can sense her hesitation. She says nothing about it, though; just changes into some casual clothes and leaves.<p>

John leaves 'Brett's' side and goes to her kitchen, washing the blood off his hands and watching it twist down the drain. The scalding water feels good, somehow. Right.

He can hear noises from the bedroom and tries his hardest to ignore them. He turns the dial on Molly's stove to full heat and begins to fill the kettle.

The bedroom door creaks open. John flinches.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wakes up in 'his' room, body protesting his recent activities with a fierceness he rarely experiences in full. His shoulder seems the worst of it, the pain sharp and pulsating, but when he takes a deep breath to call out for Molly he has to bite back a gag. His ribs are fairly badly off.<p>

He glances down at himself. He's shirtless, and his usually pale skin is stained with purples and greens in rather sensitive areas. Kidneys, ribs, stomach…vital areas. He tries to recall how he got to Molly's flat and remembers staggering through the back alleys of London in the dark, avoiding major roadways because the possibility of being followed was still a very present danger. He can vividly recall pausing to heave on the corner of Baker street and deciding that showing up on John and Lestrade's front door at three in the morning was not the best plan of action.

Sherlock remembers making an about-face and stumbling his way to Molly's flat, sagging against the wall of the elevator as it carried him closer to her, lurching to her place (last one at the end of the hall) and pounding a fist against her front door. His hand left bloody smudges on the white paint.

He remembers her opening the door, dressed in a pair of offensively pink pajamas, and the expression on her face. Shock, then distress. And then…

A voice. A very familiar, very _male_ voice, muttering softly to him. Pieces of skin tugging together. Molly calling him 'Brett' for some reason… Disjointed flashes of….

"John?" He whispers.

* * *

><p>John doesn't turn when the soft footfalls are in the hall, or when they cross the living room. He stares silently straight ahead, kettle in hand, refusing to look.<p>

"John."

'_Oh god. Oh god. It's him, all right. That, or I've gone mad.'_ For a second the idea is comforting. He's been on the edge of it for a little while now, and if he's finally cracked it'll be a relief. No longer will he be worrying about being insane. But it has to be him, because no one has that voice. Smooth and calm and completely indifferent.

"Sherlock." His voice is quiet, mild. He reaches over the counter to find a teabag and isn't surprised to see his hand shaking violently.

"I suppose you were going to find out sooner or later." Sherlock says it so matter-of-factly that John can't help a bitter smirk. "Though I'd rather hoped it wouldn't be like this."

"Mmmmm." John still can't turn. He grasps a teabag in one hand and bites his bottom lip. "Go lie down, Sherlock. You're not in a good way." His voice trembles. John curses his lack of control.

"You're upset." Sherlock says, like he's reading John. And the hell if John's going to allow that.

"Shut up. Just shut up and go back to bed, Sherlock. I'm not joking." God his leg hurts. He doesn't even have any weight on it, his foot is hovering just off the tiled floor, but the bloody ache of it makes him want to yell.

"I believe we need to 'talk' about this. It's an unorthodox situation, but—"

John turns on him, slams the kettle down on Molly's kitchen counter, and tries his hardest to control his voice. "No. _No_. Get back in bed. Now."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. "No."

"Sherlock, I'm going to fix you up. I'm going to let the bullet hole close up and your ribs heal and all that. Then I'm going to punch you in the face. Rather hard, to tell you the truth." John can feel himself shaking, vibrating with rage, but is impressed with how conversational his tone is. "And then I'm moving my things out of Baker Street and never seeing you again." He grins, and it feels so wrong. Like he's one or two more sentences from breaking into hysterical laughter. 'So for once in your life, listen. Go back. To bed."

Sherlock is gripping the doorframe with one hand, as if it's holding him up, and the strange mix of emotions John can feel tearing through his mind make him want to scream. Shock. Anger. Concern. Utter and complete disbelief, though that's beginning to fade as he takes in the detective's appearance once again.

"…We need to have a discussion, John." His former flatmate looks downright exhausted just standing there. John forces himself not to care about that.

"There's nothing to discuss, Sherlock." He goes back to making himself tea, turning his back to Sherlock. The detective doesn't move in the slightest, but John figures if he ignores him long enough he'll get the hint.

He doesn't. "I know you're hurt."

John snorts.

"And I know you're angry. But I had to." And god, that tone. The note of pleading in his voice that sounds just like '_Please, will you do this for me?'._

"Had to. You had to." John still doesn't turn. He can't look. He knows that if he looks he will not see the Sherlock that's standing in front of him but the one that is constantly there in his head. The Sherlock with his hair matted with blood, his eyes open and unseeing. He can't look. "You had to make me watch you jump off a building and die."

"Yes." Sherlock whispers. When was the last time Sherlock whispered something? "Moriarty… He was going to kill you. You and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Three bullets…" The floor creaks softly as Sherlock shifts his weight. "Three gunman."

That was not at all expected. John toys with this for a few seconds, thinking it over. He thinks about Greg, with his easy smile and his guilty eyes. And Mrs. Hudson, who looked more and more worried every time she came into the kitchen and saw her baking sitting exactly where she left it, untouched. "…I'm glad you saved them, then."

"And you."

"I'd rather have had the bullet." Bitter, but absolutely true. John tries to picture the look on Sherlock's face, deciding it is either the rare expression of surprise he gets sometimes or the cool detachment he always has. Probably cool detachment. Sherlock has always excelled at ice.

"…You don't mean that." Maybe this isn't actually Sherlock. Sherlock never sounds so quiet, so reproachful.

"I do, actually. Looks like your brilliant deductions have failed you."

"I had to—"

"Oh yes, you had to. Absolutely. Fine. I accept that you had to kill yourself to make sure that the three people who actually cared about you didn't get shot." He leans against the counter, eye squeezed shut, and listens to the total and complete silence. "So explain the eleven months and eighteen days of silence after that."

He hears the intake a breath that signals one of Sherlock's well-prepared and flashy speeches and delights in cutting him off "Actually, no. Forget it. Whatever you say isn't good enough. And I really don't care."

"John—" He's going to go ahead and talk anyway, apparently.

"Go to bed."

"I had to end it. All of it. I had to break Moriarty's empire into fragments. I had to be sure you wouldn't—"

"—Sherlock." He growls.

"—Be hurt. I had to be certain that all of this would be for a reason. Had you known I was alive—"

"—_Sherlock_."

"—It would've put you in danger. All three of you. Your reaction was the greatest cover I could have ever hoped for, and—"

"—_What?_"

That stops him. John Watson has given up on controlling his tone, on holding back his anger. That venom that always hovers in his blood comes forth in a blinding onslaught.

"_Cover_?" He hisses and turns to face what had been his best friend, and his… Well, that didn't matter now. The detective has that bloody look on his face, the one where he's said something 'socially unacceptable' but is loathe to apologise for it. "I was good _cover_?"

John holds his thumb and finger about an inch apart, ignoring the slight tremble. "This close, Sherlock. I was this close to—" He takes a deep breath. It doesn't help, and he drops his hand to one side. "I get it, yeah? I understand. I really _didn't_ mean a damn thing to you, because I'm…" He holds out his arms, smiling "…I'm normal. I'm ordinary, right? What you see is what you get, nothing special about Doctor John Watson."

Sherlock winces when he says 'ordinary'. Actually winces. John feels a perverse sliver of pleasure and pushes it deeper. "Ordinary. I drink tea and I sit in the bloody flat and stare at your things, 'cause I can't bring myself to throw anything out or donate your damn clothes or even move the furniture." He laughs, and Sherlock winces again. Probably because he sounds more then a little hysterical. "The only thing extraordinary about me is how bloody stupid I've been, sitting here mourning a man who's not even dead. And of course you're not dead! You're Sherlock fucking Holmes, you'd never do something so _pedestrian_. Like _dying_."

"John."

"But guess what Sherlock? I'm the one that's had to deal with it. All of it. I saw you jump and I saw your blood all over the pavement, and I've never _stopped_ seeing it. Do you understand?" John presses the heel of his palm against one eye, trying to drive the images of Sherlock—_His_ Sherlock, broken on the ground and bleeding and—

A sudden burning sensation in his other hand snaps him out of it for a moment.

"Christ!" John yelps. He's set his hand on the burner he turned on to make tea, the burner that's been quietly heating up while John went off on his tirade. John snarls in the back of his throat.

He's surprised when a soft, cold hand grips his wrist and turns his hand palm-up. Sherlock turns the tap nearby on and holds John's hand under the freezing water, not releasing it no matter how hard John pulls. Eventually the blogger gives up on being released and just stands there, feeling the odd sensation of simultaneously burning and freezing with a bitter sneer.

"It's not serious." Sherlock's whispering again, but this time John can feel the warmth of the detective's breath on his neck.

"I'm a bloody doctor, I know that." John puts some space between himself and his ghost, who stares, unflinching.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock steps closer. He's cornered John against Molly's countertop, and John feels a desperate need to escape. "I'm aware that the words mean little to you, but it's the truth."

"Go away." It's a hiss. He feels like a trapped animal, pinned between Sherlock's thin, beaten body and the counter.

The response isn't verbal, it's physical. He can feel the slight tremor in Sherlock's hand as it moves to rest on the back of John's neck, can feel the exhaustion in the way the detective rests his forehead against John's neck. John doesn't move. Can't. He's frozen in place by whatever _this_ is.

It gets more dreamlike when the detective moves his head as if he's moving a great weight and presses cold, dry lips against John's own.

John's almost certain he's gone insane now, because if he isn't that means _Sherlock Holmes is kissing him_ and really, even he knows that's not possible.

It's over almost as soon as it began, and Sherlock is disappearing back into the bedroom before John has a chance to stutter through some sort of desperate question.

* * *

><p>"Moron. Moron. You're a <em>moron<em>." Sherlock growls and eases himself back onto the bed, trying not to jostle anything.

He's gone and 'fucked it up', as they say. Whatever 'it' was.

* * *

><p>Molly walks in and finds John leaning against the counter, looking like someone's hit him 'round the head with a brick and he's just come to.<p>

"John?" She drops the supplies on the kitchen table, notices the kettle sitting next to the stove and frowns. "Were you making tea?"

"You knew he was alive." He doesn't sound accusing, but she flinches anyway. "You knew and you didn't tell me. Why?"

"He…made me promise not to." She fiddles with the hem of her jacket. "I'm so sorry John."

He stares blankly at her, and she wonders if he's in shock. "I've got to check in on him. You should get some sleep."

Molly doubts she'll be sleeping anytime soon.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's feigning sleep when John shuts the door behind him.<p>

"Don't be stupid, I know you aren't sleeping." John is conscious of how unbelievably wary he sounds, but it fits the last year he's had and he can't be bothered to pretend he's okay anymore. Besides, Sherlock won't be fooled the way everyone else has been.

"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock sounds guarded, and cracks his eyes open. "I was simply resting my eyes."

"Of course." John collapses into the chair he pulled up to the bed earlier. He lets the cane fall to the ground.

He falls asleep before he manages to say anything.

* * *

><p>When Rhys walks into his office at five-thirty in the morning he's surprised (and a little distressed) to find someone sitting in his chair.<p>

"Morning." The man says, back to him, staring out the window. Rhys flicks the light on and gives a tiny smile.

"Sitting alone in the dark's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" He keeps close to the door, in case turning and fleeing is necessary, but his reporter side is far too curious to leave just yet.

"I've been called worse." The voice is deep and almost familiar. Rhys is smart enough to know that the man sitting in his chair isn't finished talking, so he doesn't reply. "I find it interesting that you've got Kitty Reilly's 'farewell article' framed on your wall. Seems a bit vindictive, don't you think?"

Rhys grins. "It makes me laugh on a rough day." He's still by the door, but edges in a little closer. "And I particularly love how she claims she's leaving because of personal problems, and not because the paper dropped her like a sack of rancid garbage." He sets his briefcase down on his desk and stares at the back of the other man's head. "Which says to me they finally got around actually reading her articles, but that's just a personal belief."

"Yes, I did notice the line about 'private issues' was highlighted."

"It's nice to know exactly where to look when you want a good laugh." Rhys replies. Then crosses his arms. "So, why exactly are you sitting in my chair? I worked hard for that chair, it swivels and everything."

"I thought you might be all right with standing for a bit, considering I've made your career." The voice says mildly. Rhys frowns.

"Funny, you don't _sound_ like John Watson."

The chair swivels around (which Rhys really does love), and the man sitting in it gives him a nearly-microscopic smirk.

"He would be rather pleased to hear you say that." Sherlock Holmes says, and Rhys nearly passes out right then and there.

* * *

><p><strong>The Resurrection of a legend-My conversation with Sherlock Holmes<strong>

_Article by Rhys Sheppard, Editor-In-Chief._

He was sitting in my office at five-thirty in the morning, staring out the window in silence, and when I finally figured out who it was I nearly passed out on my very uncomfortable floor.

Yes ladies and gents, it's true. Sherlock Holmes, recently cleared of being a criminal mastermind and the subject of an Internet phenomenon, is alive and well in London.

Holmes, who was accused of multiple criminal acts by the freshly fired 'journalist' Kitty Reilly (I'm sorry, she resigned. For some reason I thought she was fired) last year, jumped from the roof of Saint Bart's hospital two days before the article proclaiming him to be a fraud was set to be released. Since then he has been the subject of suspicion, ridicule, anger and defamation, all based on the testimony of one 'Richard Brook', an 'actor' hired by Sherlock Holmes to portray his nemesis, Jim Moriarty.

It was recently proven by Henry Knight and his handy Cardiff hacker that Holmes couldn't possibly have committed the vast amount of crimes he's solved, and the unwavering dedication of Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade has managed to establish this in court. Sherlock Holmes was posthumously acquitted of all charges last week, much to the pleasure of those who claimed to be close to him.

But Holmes is a much more brilliant genius then anyone has given him credit for. He managed to convincingly fake his own death and remain out of the public eye for an astonishing twelve months, organizing it with the help of a 'close friend' and a group that he calls his 'homeless network'.

Want details? Interested in the 'hows' and 'whys'? Of course you are, don't lie to me. The exclusive interview is on page three, so go read it. I won't beg.

_-Rhys Sheppard, Editor-In-Chief._

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Thank you. So much. Each and every one of you made this fic possible, and it's finally done. But don't worry. There's a sequel in the works and an 'interludes' fic for anyone and everyone who enjoyed this. I'm also taking prompts for the interludes fic, so feel free to drop some off! The sequel will be about fixing the relationship between John and Sherlock, because that's too big of a project for a fic that was only going to be three parts.<em>**

**_Again, thank you for reading. I'm so thankful. _**


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